


heartstrings

by astersandstuffs



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Childhood Friends, Domestic Fluff, Future Fic, Getting Together, Happy Ending, Living Together, M/M, Minor Hanamaki Takahiro/Matsukawa Issei, Mutual Pining, Post-Canon, Red String of Fate, Slice of Life, Winter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-31
Updated: 2018-01-15
Packaged: 2019-02-24 15:21:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13216569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/astersandstuffs/pseuds/astersandstuffs
Summary: Iwaizumi reaches out for Tooru’s string, misses by the barest centimeters, and lets it stir in the air at the unnatural disturbance, red against the white backdrop of winter. Color of life in a season of stillness.Seeing them, making contact—he’s always had an easier time than others, and Tooru can only wonder if the gods keep tally of prayers sent, shrines visited, festivals frequented.In which they go to different colleges and play on separate teams, share an apartment and a bed, and are not soulmates in any way.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> @KayeJ, i'm so sorry for how late this is - i tried combining a couple of your prompts and it got 5x longer than planned. still, i hope it'll be to your liking ^^ 
> 
> a lot of thanks to [Kat](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Miah_Kat), who's an amazing person and writer, and who's patient enough to answer my endless, nonsense questions and kept me motivated through writing this fic. seriously, she's the best ☆*。

When snow falls over Tokyo in November for the first time in fifty-four years, Tooru reaches out the window, hands open, and catches the white flakes in his palms.

“Hey, Iwa-chan,” he calls, peering over his shoulders for his childhood best friend. Just shy of 5AM, Iwaizumi is still keen on snoring away on the shared bed, blanket kicked sideways and a hand up his sleep-wrinkled shirt. Tooru lets the snow gather, however long it might take. However long it might be okay to watch.

Later, he dumps a handful of snow right on Iwaizumi’s face, gets this cute shriek for his effort, a pillow-smack to the head, and one more excuse to laugh everything off.

“I was helping Iwa-chan chill out,” Tooru chirps, no matter how many times Iwaizumi’s accused him, _What are you, a spring songbird?_ (He takes it as a compliment.) Already up and sitting on the edge, Iwaizumi yawns wide before heaving out a drowsy sigh. He reaches back without looking, makes a mess of the bedhead Tooru’s tried styling in advance despite his protest, and asks what he’d like for breakfast.

“Milk bread.”

“Mmm. ‘Kay.”

“Iwa-chan’s being nice today.”

“You have an 8AM class. I pity you.” At this, Iwaizumi finds him with eyes all too knowing, anyway. When he confirms whatever it is he’s looking for on Tooru’s face—probably the signs of a _good enough sleep_ , like the best friend he is and the brilliant doctor he’ll be—he shakes off the rest of the snow from his hair and peers out the window as well.

It’s that quiet moment post-waking up, a pocket of solitude where it’s just you and maybe some lingering dream residue. The world lets itself be known by the distant grumble of traffic, of life stirring up even when the sun rises late this time of the year. An alarm clock he’d silenced to give Iwaizumi a few more minutes flashes LED-red. Cold seeps in the absence of a warmth pressed up by his side. Iwaizumi blinks more awake by the seconds, never one to laze around, either, and Tooru knows he can’t just stand still watching for too long.

Iwaizumi’s old Godzilla blanket is a mess beside his own that’s twisted out of stars and constellations, and because he’s always been terrible at ignoring things for anyone’s good, he takes note of this: trailed across the city ruins, the crinkled and star-dotted fabric, their red strings might seem like they’re entwined or connected or something. When Tooru picks at his fate, it passes through Iwaizumi’s for the millionth time, maybe the _billionth_ time, without tangling.

“Strange weather, huh,” Iwaizumi says.

Tooru just hums in reply. He grasps Iwaizumi’s hand, every bit of _him_ here for Tooru to hold, and drags him along to start their day, past Iwaizumi’s _oi, wait up, Clumsykawa!_ and the strangest turn of wind the world might hurl at them.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

“We’re out of milk bread.”

“How can we be out of _milk bread_?”

In the kitchenette, Iwaizumi closes the milk bread-designated cabinet with a final _thud_ , and repeats, “ _We’re out of milk bread._ ”

“It was Makki, wasn’t it?” Tooru muses conspiratorially. Standing by the windowsill, he digs a finger into the soil of a potted succulent, determines it’s dry enough to warrant a drink, and trickles water from a ceramic cup into the parched dirt. Two more to go. _Iwaizumi has a cabinet just for your favorite food._ “He _was_ up to something the last time he and Mattsun came over.”

“No one in their right mind would eat something that disgustingly sweet.”

“I _know_ —milk bread is a much better pastry than cream puffs.”

“How do you keep turning insults into compliments?”

“Iwa-chan is just really bad at insults.”

Iwaizumi throws a blue marker from their _Chores Assignments_ whiteboard at him, not even _trying_ to hit, but Tooru flits out of the way and catches it with a laugh. A Vabo-chan calendar hangs next to the window and he draws a water drop on today’s date. He’s intent on _not_ killing this batch. He’s even named them _Iwa-chan_ , _Mattsun_ , and _Makki_ to make sure.

Footsteps tread about the kitchen, barefooted and heavy and sure, and Tooru counts them like music, like the steps and turns Iwaizumi might take on the court. _One, two, three, four_ —next comes the _jump_ , with trust and the will to score, and then _a dead-on spike_. They haven’t been on the same team for three years now. “Hey,” Iwaizumi says, neck-deep in some other storage from the way his voice echoes and is muffled at once, “don’t go for a run this morning.”

“What?” Tooru swivels around to face him. Iwaizumi takes his head out of the fridge’s drawer, cradling a covered glass bowl with some sort of dough in it that Tooru’s never seen before, and kicks the door closed with his heel. “Why? And what are you doing?”

That earns him a quirked brow. “Bread dough.” Iwaizumi pushes miscellaneous items aside, tupperware and small plastic tubes of spices, lost things and last year’s notes and textbooks, and sets it down on what little space the counter has left to offer. “And there’s snow all over the streets. Do you want to fall on your pretty face?”

“We always go for a run on Thursday,” Tooru insists. College is a reverse of their previous school years, to some extent—they’re now together at home, at the beginning and end of most days, but separate for classes and many other activities. It’s nothing he didn’t expect, but there are habits and routines he’s adamant in keeping, like Friday movie nights and experimenting on new ways to wake Iwaizumi up and going for a run together. He points accusingly in Iwaizumi’s direction, when his train of thought barrels into treacherous territory like _well, maybe it’s just Iwa-chan you’d like to keep_. “I know what dough is. Why do we have that and why’s it in the fridge?”

“It’s another way to ferment it, dumbass.” Iwaizumi keeps his eyes on the target and punches the risen dough. “You were the one who wanted milk bread. ‘Course I hid it—can’t have you burning down our place.”

“So you just…have that around?”

Wrinkles form on Iwaizumi’s too-high forehead, the _exasperated_ kind not aimed at Tooru for once, and a hand comes up to scratch the back of his head. “Think of it like an emergency ratio. It’s not a lot, probably enough for two or three pieces. I just give it to Hanamaki or the dog shelter nearby if we’re not going to eat it.” He looks up. “It’s safe for them after some modification and in small amount,” he adds, like it’s the most crucial information out of it all. Tooru finds the oddest gesture from him, Iwaizumi’s palm sliding down to cover his nape and moving over his right cheek, half-hiding it from view.

From there, he takes note of the dark circles under his green eyes, the upward twitch at one corner of his chapped lips, because looking out for symptoms isn’t an art reserved for medical students. Because if he lets his gaze drift, he might dwell on the stretch of Iwaizumi’s old shirt over his broad shoulders, the touch of his callous but gentle hands, if he can run his own fingers through Iwaizumi’s prickly hair until the latter falls asleep altogether.

“ _Oi_ ,” Iwaizumi calls him back, steps taken to reach him. A flick to the forehead. “Don’t do that. You don’t need to analyze me. Plus, it makes you look constipated. Just ask what I’m thinking.”

Tooru pouts, rubbing at the spot that stings but doesn’t hurt at all. “Says Iwa-chan, who _always_ looks constipated. You’ll wrinkle like an old man in no time at this rate.”

“Is it that hard for you to at least _seem_ like a decent person?”

With a recovered smirk, eyes purposely half-shut, Tooru leans down to whisper right in Iwaizumi’s ear, “You love me just like this.” Iwaizumi goes wide-eyed at that, redness confirmed and creeping farther across tan cheeks. Without waiting for either an answer or a rejection, Tooru sticks out his tongue at him, splashes the remaining water over Iwaizumi’s head, and runs for his life before all hell breaks loose.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

_“Iwa-chan, why are you carrying a duster—ahahaha—wait, that tickles—stop it!”_

_“You asked for it, Slowpokekawa.”_

_“Iwa-chan! Not fair!”_  

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Here are the troubles with settling on this truce, an apartment smack in the middle of two different universities: they both need to take their respective trains, the extra fees of which result in a resident too cramped and suffering from a bit of disrepair, and they don’t have as much time just for each other anymore.

It’d started with Tooru practicing his lines in the mirror after their first major fight in years had cooled down, outbursts of emotions reined in and sharp words dulled, eyes no longer stinging or puffy-red. There was no need to appear more genuine, only to keep composure all the way through, this time around, and he’d surely been his frivolous self when Iwaizumi caught him perusing through apartment listings on his laptop. _Tokyo_ , but not anyplace farther north. _Two bedrooms only_. Iwaizumi had given him a strange look at that, impatient and quick to anger, careful and even quicker to forgive, before joining him in the search and arguing about the logistics like he’d been prepared for it. From there, it hasn’t really ended. Life goes on as usual, on the day snow falls over Tokyo in November for the first time in fifty-four years.

Idling in front of their apartment building, Tooru waits as Iwaizumi musters up the courage to say goodbye to their neighbor’s Akita Inu, as per usual.

“News said the trains are gonna be late,” he reads off the article on his phone, lifting up and down by the toes of his shoes, and tugs his scarf lower to take a final bite of the _fresh out of the oven_ milk bread. “How awfully unexpected, this _hatsuyuki_.”

“The _news_ news or your followers?” Iwaizumi asks. He straightens up, readjusts his backpack, and waves at the dog one last time when he gets a round of excited barks and tail-wagging in return. On the days Iwaizumi’s classes start at a later hour, sometimes he still goes with Tooru to hit the library or a colleague’s place for a project or two—or maybe it’s the old-time habit of walking to school and home together, built over the years. (So it isn’t _just_ for the dog, of course. Possibly.)

“Both, actually! Here, this anon-chan even wished _be careful and good luck, Oikawa-san_.”

Iwaizumi just shakes his head at that, because the idea of social medias and Tooru’s fanclub tracking him down across prefectures still baffles him. Down they go on the sidewalk, side-by-side and bumping shoulders. “Snow in this side of Tokyo never stays long, anyway. Probably gone by next week.”

“Iwa-chan is a party-pooper.”

“Ha? How’s that make sense?”

“It’s something about snow in big cities, don’t you know? Specifically here, even _if_ there’s enough snowfall, it melts too fast, and there’s nothing anyone can do about it,” Tooru says. “So there’s this vulnerable feeling tacked to Tokyo winter. It kinda happens with _hanami_ , too.”

“Sounds grim,” Iwaizumi says, breath exhaled white and fleeting as a ghost.

“Ah, but I bet you’re too much of a brute to understand that,” Tooru teases. Steps light over patches of ice and snow that have found refuge between crevices in the pavement, he draws back from any more mention of inevitable things, short-lived snow and persistent red strings alike, and instead baits Iwaizumi into another banter.

First comes _stage one_ of their bickering, as Tooru makes a jab that’s deemed too far by someone with a heart as big as Iwaizumi’s. “I saw Tobio-chan in the Under-19 games last week,” he says with a lilt; _Oh, I can’t wait to crush him_ , buried under the cheery tone for those who know him better, and maybe there’s another level under that, like _I’m a bit scared again_ , hidden only for the people he allows to get so close. It’s been told that _the red string of fate_ is the strongest bond of all—one soul split between two bodies, but mind and spirit connected by a lifeline. This is what Tooru muses about when Iwaizumi, always paying attention without drawing the spotlight to himself, smacks him on the arm for thinking he’d be fighting alone.

Iwaizumi takes his turn next. “Heh, are you wearing that beanie to cover your hair?” he asks with a chuckle, yanking at Tooru’s woolen hat so it falls crooked and tickles his left ear. “It gets puffy in winter, doesn’t it?”

“Rude!”

“Your hair is good as it is.”

Tooru pulls his beanie even lower to cover the tips of his ears, already heated and nipped red by chilly winds. “Iwa-chan likes my hair,” he singsongs, grinning despite it all, and Iwaizumi sputters out, _Like hell_. “Are you jealous? Don’t worry—I’m sure you’ll go bald by the time you’re thirty so there’s nothing to mourn about!”

They draw closer to each other from there. Somewhere down the road, they’ve been spoiled with knowing without words by the way their shoulders brush, the millisecond glances (and the ones they let linger), the hands not held but staying close in case the need ever rises.

 _Be careful, as it’ll be colder than expected._ Iwaizumi wears his scarf as messy as he did his school uniform. Tooru clicks his tongue and fixes it for him.

 _Be careful of the hazardous road._ In the middle of his excited rambling (“It’s gonna be January soon and we’ll be able to see the stars back in Miyagi—”), Tooru slips, loses his balance, and Iwaizumi grabs his arm like it’s instinct, curses muttered before scolding him for not wearing more weather-appropriate shoes. His touch burns worse than any frostbite Tooru could’ve suffered right then and there.

_Be careful—and do prepare for late trains!_

“ _Oikawa_!” Iwaizumi hails after him, a little too late to grab his coat and drag him back, when Tooru just kicks off into a run. He can still surprises Iwaizumi at times. “Don’t run, dumbass!”

“But we might miss your train!”

“I can get there on my own!”

When Iwaizumi catches up to him, past any surreal first snow and slippery slopes, the neighbors walking their dogs and the people with their own everyday beginnings, he barrels on ahead instead of faltering. Instinct polished throughout the years kicks in. _Run, just run_ —and because Tooru’s always had trouble stopping, resting, being left behind, because Iwaizumi’s back is withdrawing farther away, he keeps on running. They draw the finish line at the crossroad leading to their different train stations, propose to bring back the score from high school only to realize they’ve forgotten the numbers amid the flurry of a new city, and starts anew. _Iwaizumi: 1 - Oikawa: 0._

“Careful on the way,” Tooru says, slightly breathless, with a bright grin and a flash of his signature peace sign. “You get cold so easily, you might freeze without me.”

Iwaizumi smiles back. “ _Like hell_ , Sultrykawa.”

“Iwa-chan… Please stick to ‘dumbass’ for your own sake.”

With no red strings to tie them together, they part ways with the promise to meet again.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

There are more love confessions in Tokyo.

Tooru chalks it up to chances—that there are 13,650,000 people living in the metropolis compared to the two-or-so million spread over the entirety of Miyagi. Among such a large number, in a city too busy and with an even bigger world out there within reach, they might not gamble as much hope in following their string and finding someone at the end of it.

“I’m sorry, but I can’t return your feelings.” To this, Tooru adds his own flair to his apology, the sincerest smile he can summon on demand, the head kept low in a respectful bow (but never, ever in pity), and the breezy way he says this. He has his regard for those courageous enough (and maybe also _silly_ enough) to disclose their affection.

In response, some muster up a smile. Others have stomped off altogether or radiated indifference. Today is a mix of those. Aoki-chan hums, twirls a lock of her dark-brown hair around her index finger and takes back her letter. She’s in his Business class and a valuable research partner, with attentive honesty and a bias toward team sports, and doesn’t fall one bit for his deliberate charm.

“Are you two together?” she simply asks, with a nod toward Iwaizumi at the entrance of their university gym, as she’d caught Tooru at the end of his volleyball practice. “This is the third time I’ve seen him here to pick you up.”

Out of place wearing another team’s tracksuit, Iwaizumi scrolls on his phone to while away the minutes. He shifts from one foot to the other, smiles polite and the slightest bit wary at the curious glances that meet his eyes. For all the unspoken consensus that he’d been the pack leader of Aoba Johsai, and that he was just as much the volleyball club’s pillar as Tooru, he’s more awkward around strangers than his iron-willed personality gives away. Perhaps that’s why his admirers are quieter about it. Tooru thinks it’s endearing.

And he’s glad, too. He can be the loud one in Iwaizumi’s life.

“We’re friends,” Tooru says, and waves his left hand once to show her the red string tied around his littlest finger. They can glimpse the ones closest to them if they try hard enough, but after twenty-one years, these threads might as well be part of the ground to him (and a colorful distraction on the court). His string trails in Iwaizumi’s opposite direction, slipping under the far-off wall. “Roommates. So we’re together, in a way.”

Aoki grins, small but wry between pinkish cheeks. “If you say so—good luck, anyway,” she says, before parting ways with a bow that Tooru is embarrassingly late to reciprocate when Iwaizumi catches him looking.

“Turned her down?” Iwaizumi asks, right after Tooru jogs up to him and they begin their walk home together. He keeps close when he notices how his best friend relaxes at his presence. Iwaizumi doesn’t need to pick him up, really, because they now have their own circles of friends and favorite pastimes, because they’re starting to build _something_ outside of each other—but he does, anyway. In thanks, Tooru offers to carry his backpack _so Iwa-chan wouldn’t get even shorter_.

(“You might’ve grown taller if you didn’t tote around so many things. Flashlight, duct tape, two ponchos, _first-aid kit_ —are you going camping?”

“ _Never depend on those lucky moments_ ,” Iwaizumi quotes with all the sureness in the world, and Tooru nearly groans because this is _not_ the first time. “ _Always build your own back-up plan_.”)

“It’ll be volleyball season soon,” Tooru excuses. _I’ll be too caught up in it to pay attention_ , in other words, and Iwaizumi must have translated as much from the way he forgoes _Shittykawa_ and the likes.

“You shouldn’t date people who don’t appreciate what you love,” Iwaizumi reminds him, like he did on the day of Tooru’s first volleyball-induced breakup. “She seemed like a fan, though.”

“Iwa-chan is pretty wise for someone who only dated once.”

“And you’re still a dumbass despite all those people you _claimed_ you’ve dated.”

“Hmm, you know,” Tooru starts, and trails off. With a raised hand, he draws an unbroken line on the frost-layered windows they’re passing by, a skip to his step that’s more restless than anything. He shakes his head. “No. Nevermind.”

Iwaizumi jostles their shoulders in a light nudge. “Spill.”

“Well, my family kinda _looks_ more traditional. I have three aunts, more cousins than I can name, and there’s _tatami_ everywhere in the house.” Tooru lets his hand fall back to his side. “But that’s it. Dad wants me to be a lawyer, but Mom won’t mind who I date as long as I bring someone respectable into the family. You always go to shrines and festivals and the likes.”

“You cried and begged us to go ‘cause you wanted to see the fireworks.”

“ _Anyway_ ,” Tooru continues. He defaults back into a sneer, when he can’t pinpoint the awful twist in his chest. “Is the reason you haven’t dated anyone again because you’re waiting for _that someone?_ ”

Iwaizumi frowns as he digs into the backpack he’s refused to surrender. ( _Not when you just got out of practice, Tiredkawa_ , he’d said, ever the gruff gentleman.) “You know, the first time I went to a shrine—at least the earliest one I can remember—it was with my grandma. Your lot went to a summer trip and I wasn’t invited. I got upset, so she showed me around and told me stories until I wasn’t.”

“ _Aww_ ,” Tooru pretends to swoon, and it is far easier than any act should’ve been.

“Oh, shut up—your sister said _you_ wouldn’t stop crying all the way there,” Iwaizumi counters. “Anyway, Grandma would tell me tales about the gods and spirits but I can’t really remember them now.” A second of silence, then, glances made at the heavens, and Tooru had known her well enough to send a short prayer. Iwaizumi grounds himself back on earth. “I guess I’d come to appreciate how faithful it is.”

He retrieves a pair of mittens he’s been carrying around for _gods know_ how long in that apocalypse-ready bag of his, shoves them right up in Tooru’s face, and tells him that a setter needs his fingers unfrozen to toss volleyballs.

“Do I believe in this?” Iwaizumi reaches out for Tooru’s string, misses by the barest centimeters, and lets it stir in the air at the unnatural disturbance, red against the white backdrop of winter. Color of life in a season of stillness. Seeing them, making contact—he’s always had an easier time than others, and Tooru can only wonder if the gods keep tally of prayers sent, shrines visited, festivals frequented.

“It’s there no matter how we look at it.” Iwaizumi scratches the back of his head, shoulders bunched up like he might heave out a great sigh. “I don’t know, either, and even if I like the idea of it, I’m sure as hell we didn’t get this far just by predetermined things.”

“Like volleyball,” Tooru breathes out.

Iwaizumi blinks back at him, the promise they’d sealed by a fist bump never once forgotten, and gives up a huffy sort of laugh. “Yeah, _Nerdykawa_.”

 _Talent is something you make bloom._ This is what he’d come to theorize at their final match in Seijou VBC (though he didn’t arrive at it alone—not without a wise old man’s words and a quarrel three years earlier that’d ended in a bloody nose and _All of a sudden, I feel invincible_ ). It might come today, or the day after tomorrow, or even when you hit thirty as long as you let it; the way his heart’s learned to somersault at the mere sight of _his_ smile, how it tricks him into a dreamy haze just with his lingering touches—these things that hadn’t been there from the start but instead have grown over the years—might be the same. _Something you make bloom._

Tooru catches the end of Iwaizumi’s sleeve, bunches it up in his fist rather than just pinching it between his fingers, and hooks their elbows together. “Stop butchering my name,” he whines with put-on petulance. Iwaizumi’s hands stay in the pockets of his pants like how it’s been ever since they’d stopped swinging hands in eighth grade. He surmises that Iwaizumi’s trying to keep them warm in this winter night, however early it is for the season to set, and stays close to share whatever fire he’s tended for him.

“Nerdykawa,” Iwaizumi insists on saying. “ _Spaceykawa_ ,” he invents another one on the spot with a crooked grin, and Tooru just squawks all indignant because _nicknames_ are supposed to be his forte, after all. So he digs his fingers into Iwaizumi’s track jacket, tightens his grasp even if there’s nothing fateful pulling them together.

“ _Iwa-chan_ ,” he says, because he knows this has been there from the beginning (and he hopes it’ll stick until the end).

“ _Iwa-chan_ ,” is something of his own making, a name he’d chosen and kept.

“ _Iwa-chan_ ,” and Iwaizumi will always know who’s looking for him.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

When snow falls over Tokyo in November for the first time in fifty-four years, he thinks he might want to make something bloom in winter.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

“You guys are a bad influence on Iwa-chan,” Tooru tells an old friend one Friday night, Iwaizumi’s hack-and-slash of his name clearly getting out of control. He especially likes _Spaceykawa_ right now, at once calling Tooru out on extraterrestrial things and _spacing out_ , and Tooru doesn’t even space out _that_ much.

Matsukawa Issei doesn’t bat an eye. He swallows down the karaage he’s been chewing, gestures at nothing in particular with half of the mutilated meat in hand. “It’s like osmosis.”

Tooru scrunches up his nose. “Gross, Mattsun,” he chides. “These are supposed to be _bite-sized_.”

“See, that’s one example,” Matsukawa says. “‘Hiro has this habit not to eat anything in one bite—something about how he can separate the tastes better that way—and I’ve got it as well now.” He looks at their plate of chicken karaage like it’s betrayed him. “I suppose that’s what happens when you’ve lived together for a while. Ergo, Iwaizumi learned this one from you since you spent the most time with him.”

“Doesn’t line up. I come up with _good_ nicknames and his are simply insulting.”

“Hm, I don’t know. They’re kinda cute.” Something in Matsukawa’s tone makes it sound more like a jab at _Tooru_ , somehow. A little smirk belies his nonchalant eyes. “Can’t wait to hear what’s next.”

“I take it back.” Tooru points his karaage-laden chopsticks at him accusingly. He might eat a lot (as an athlete determined to go pro, in his defense), but bare fingers are reserved for sweet treats only. “Iwa-chan’s a bad influence on you guys.”

“You can say they’re an insult to him, too.”

Matsukawa looks to the side before Tooru can ask what he meant by that, past the crowded tables and the lanterns lit like honey and the din of a popular izakaya during after-work hours. “Speaking of, that’s Iwaizumi, isn’t it?” he observes, like he’s had it up his sleeve the whole time.

Tooru doesn’t need to follow Matsukawa’s line of sight to find him. At the bar, Iwaizumi’s laughing with a couple of his teammates, fresh out of practice match and here to wind down from a well-deserved win. (Maybe still first and foremost, he’d let Tooru know this. _Might be back late_ , he’d texted him. _Don’t worry_. _Don’t stay up too late rewatching those matches, dumbass_.) He’s got one elbow on the bartop, the other hand clapped over his knee. Open and at ease.

“What a coincidence,” Tooru says around a pleasant smile, but it doesn’t seem to convince Matsukawa of anything good. Iwaizumi’s voice is as gruff as it’s lively, indistinct, by the time it reaches their table at the corner where they can peek at him but less likely the other way around, and without Tooru complementing his sentences.

“You know, instead of _‘I broke up with my girlfriend and now I don’t have plans for the weekends,’_ I wouldn't have minded if you invited me out to play _spy_.” Matsukawa says this like he’s making a joke in his head at Tooru’s expense, but also something else, something softer like _sympathy_ , rare as it is, and Tooru much rather prefers the first. Matsukawa must have picked that up as well, _because this is the kind of friends he has_ , really, and goes to divert into something less tense. “So Aoki-chan, huh? How long did it last this time, a week?” he teases him, anyway.

“ _Mattsun_.” Tooru bats at Matsukawa's arm as the latter tips his beer for a drink. They laugh at the resulting mess, the sputtering and spilled drops and the ease of it all. _Hey, I’m paying for that._ Nevertheless, he takes up the offer and tells another story—

—that he’d known Aoki’s numbers because they sit next to each other in some classes ( _rejected confession letter_ aside), and that none of their conversations were stilted. She likes action movies and hockey and calling his bluff, too, and _maybe_ Matsukawa gets to be the first to guess some of the undisclosed parts: that he’d tried running down a path other than wherever this string’s pulling him (because it’s a flimsy, stupid thing and he’s got seventy-two kilograms on it, _for heavens’ sake_ ), like the tens of times he’d done so since he knew it was an option, only to circle back right where he’d started.

In any other circumstances, Tooru wouldn’t be so inclined to mention a scrap of this to anyone _lucky_ as Matsukawa Issei. He’d drop a warning sneer and steer the conversation away, _far_ away; but it’s Mattsun, Iwaizumi’s voice retreats to the backstage of his mind, and it’s just too cold in winter to fight and stay apart. He’s too tired for it, anyway, having spent a few hours practicing his serves in the gym before Matsukawa had replied to his invitation.

So it’s in amicable peace that they part for the night, with a Miyagi-bound train to catch before it’s too late (because Hanamaki might kill him if he doesn’t arrive home first and turn on the heater, Matsukawa says flatly), and a night to rest before tomorrow’s volleyball practice. Matsukawa’s hand is heavy when it lands on Tooru’s shoulder, like he knows it’ll be a while before Tooru flirts with any semblance of sleep. _Go do what you need to do_ , it says, but doesn’t impose, and Tooru’s eyes immediately flit to Iwaizumi like he can’t help it.

It must be what’s clouding his thoughts, when he picks up his phone after downing the rest of their drinks combined, and types up a message.

 **To: Iwa-chan  
** >> iwa-chan’s wearing his clothes inside out Σ(゜ロ゜;)

Too far to hear the tone, he sees the second Iwaizumi receives the text, the way he tilts his head just so when he’s curious about a sound he’s just heard. He never silences Tooru’s number, not even during the worst of their arguments and cold shoulders, with a solid track record of being the one to reach out first whenever Tooru stubbornly pulls away. When Iwaizumi goes to read it straightaway, Tooru thinks it’s too early for any alcohol-induced giddiness to set in.

 **From: Iwa-chan  
** >> Wth are you doing here?

He peers up from the screen, at Iwaizumi who’s surreptitiously glaring in his direction. Of course he’d find him within seconds.

 **To: Iwa-chan  
** >> dinner with mattsun after we went to the mall (∗´꒳`)

 **From: Iwa-chan**  
>> I thought it was with a girl?  
>> You got dumped again didn’t you

 **To: Iwa-chan**  
>> might as well be a date  
>> mattsun’s a big eater so it was expensive you know  
>> i even paid for his meal!  
>> and he left me stranded here <(￣＾￣)>  
>> i think he’s cheating on me with makki

Iwaizumi pulls a face at that, too honest to do it successfully, and it gets his teammates’ attention. They gather around him and tease him cordially— _who could’ve made you smile like that_ , probably, like what Hanamaki and Matsukawa and the rest of their Seijou gang might do, and Tooru remembers that Iwaizumi’s in good hands, with a good team like this. He offers them a grin and a wink when they greet him from afar. He forces down the bitter aftertaste that’s crawling back up his throat. Someone even whistles, the cat-eyed, rooster-haired one, and another guy— _Karasuno’s ex-captain_ , no less—promptly jabs him in his ribs.

 **From: Iwa-chan**  
>> Go home and rest  
>> You have morning practice tomorrow right?

 **To: Iwa-chan**  
>> hmmmmm nope  
>> not leaving i mean  
~~> > why’d i go home if iwa-chan’s not there  
~~>> why’d i leave if i can watch iwa-chan

 **From: Iwa-chan**  
>> Gross  
>> Wait how drunk are you  
>> Stop glaring at that guy one table over  
>> I know he just yelled x-files was a bad series but don’t just pick a fight with someone  
>> I won’t be long if you want to go home first  
>> Or if you want to wait

 **To: Iwa-chan  
** >> mmmkaayy

Still, it’s only fifteen minutes into the armistice when Tooru stumbles up from his seat and over to him. He plants his forehead on the crook of the Iwaizumi’s neck, these broad shoulders he’s known his entire life, the weight they carry, the changes they’ve gone and are still going through, and slurs out _Iwa-chan_ like he’s a lot more drunk than he is.

Conversations trail off as if Iwaizumi’s friends have been expecting this kind of stunt, too, and when they give them both a bit more space for themselves, he thinks it’s not too late to give them more credit—thinks, _Do you talk about me, Iwa-chan? Do you have me on your mind?_ A talk show playing on the mounted TV and other people-made noises mingle into a drone. ( _“Is Japan’s low divorce rate worth the declining birth rate?”_ the host says. _“On finding your soulmate in the twenty-first century!”_ ) Pressed up against his best friend’s back, Iwaizumi’s heartbeat is all too palpable that Tooru thinks his own will sync in with it. He half-heartedly tries to shake Tooru off, before sighing, leaning his weight back on him.

“What about the show we’re supposed to watch tonight?” Tooru asks, hushed enough for just Iwaizumi to hear. Out of all the thoughts he’d rather keep at bay, he wants to laugh at this one now, because they’ve _both_ forgotten a routine that matters. A first, still, but maybe not the last.

“There’ll be reruns,” Iwaizumi says in reply.

“We can’t do _reruns_. Not for _Interstellar Omniverse_.”

“I still think that’s the stupidest title.”

Even so, Iwaizumi excuses himself after a short while. So Tooru _is_ a little bit drunk, because all he knows is just Iwa-chan and himself and the goodbye that goes by in a blur. It’s the kind that doesn’t end in a hangover and endures more than just a few days—months and _years_ , even—and he wonders if it’s also impossible to build a tolerance.

They’re soon out in the snow just like that, blending in with those who have somewhere else to be as they head to the train station for two tickets before midnight. True to Iwaizumi’s prediction, snowfall had lightened up a week after the _hatsuyuki_ , but it’s beginning to spill over the city once more, in little flakes that you might take for granted only to find yourself overwhelmed and engulfed in no time. _Oh, how strange a weather._ Tooru holds out his hand, and white-gray dollops of snow thaw on his palm not long after contact.

They stop at a pedestrian red-light, where the sidewalk’s end dips into darker asphalt road and painted white strips for them to cross. Cars’ headlights are turned on, their wheels careful in skidding along the way. Streetlamps and neon signage light up for the darkest days of the year, buzzing electric in place of summer cicadas.

“Hey, Iwa-chan,” Tooru calls, with his head slumped against Iwaizumi’s shoulder and eyes half-shut in the proximity of him, in the warmth of him. He wonders if winter chill just emphasizes how warm certain people are, but still takes note to check Iwaizumi’s temperature over the next few days. “I’m you _best_ best friend.” He bites back the pitch at the end that’d make it sound like a question, heart running too brisk and strangling the air out of his lungs to say any more than that, and blames his babbling on Iwaizumi-induced drowsiness.

“Gods know the world probably can’t handle two of you,” Iwaizumi tells him, quieter instead of raising the volume over the traffic and static crowd. He’s got his eyes set on the road ahead, or maybe avoiding Tooru’s searching gaze altogether. “No one can compare to you, anyway.”

And as much as Tooru might miss the suburban lullaby of their hometown Sendai, the stars on a clear night sky and the crickets’ song lulling him from post-practice fatigue to sleep, here, the way citylights shimmer for his favorite countryside boy is more than enough to mesmerize. Whenever he goes, Iwaizumi will always be in his spotlight.

He sways like he’s a tad drunk off his feet, and he’s sure Iwaizumi sees through it, despite the weight leaned on each other and the hands held all the way home.

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

Besides morning runs (often with Iwaizumi), classes and meetups with friends old and new (sometimes with Iwaizumi), and Friday movie nights ( _always_ with Iwaizumi), Tooru spends a large part of his time in one of Chuo University’s gyms. With a volleyball in hand, the court in his sight, his palm stinging from serves that echo like gunfire and muscles burning with exertion, growing up and growing apart don’t distract him from shooting for the top. Quite the opposite, in fact.

“You sprained your ankle.”

Ushijima blinks up at him from the bench, one ankle in a cast.

“I sprained my ankle.”

“So why did you change into your practice gear?” Tooru deadpans, dropping his sports bag next to the wing spiker. “I thought Kou-chan taught you better than that”—because he’d passed _On the Dilemma of Overworking_ to Bokuto, and Bokuto to Ushijima in better ways than Tooru could’ve handled it, really, when Ushijima had trouble syncing in with the non-Shiratorizawa players, didn’t make the first-string from the start, and then decided the best solution was practicing until 2AM every day—“You’re going to _fully_ recover or I won’t toss to you, Ushiwaka-chan.”

“Please don’t call me that,” Ushijima says, although this exchange has become a weird sort of greeting rather than any demand. “It’s a very light sprain and I find volleyball comforting.”

“Of course you’d have a thing for volleyball uniforms,” Tooru mumbles, waving it off when Ushijima just cocks his head in genuine inquiry. He scans the gym and grins. “Eh, Kou-chan is having the time of his life with that transfer guy from Karasuno. Nishinoya-kun, wasn’t it?”

“I believe so. He is a skilled libero,” Ushijima comments, as Nishinoya Yuu returns Bokuto’s straight to the setter near perfectly. Bokuto groans and pulls at his two-toned hair, but not for long, and he calls for another toss like his enthusiastic self. _You won’t get away with the next one!_ (Tooru makes note to practice his improved serves with the super libero as well.) Ushijima looks to the side, where the coaches are discussing over clipboards and charts and observing the newer players warm up. “You should also talk to Head Coach.”

“ _Also_?” Tooru asks with a quirked brow.

“I was briefed earlier.”

As he walks over to retrieve a stray ball from the floor, he has to stare at Ushijima before the latter picks up the cue to elaborate. He’s gotten better at it than back when they’d found out they would be playing on the same team. It seems Bokuto Koutarou was a great catalyst to friendships. ( _Teamwork_ , Tooru corrects himself, because it’s not like he’s friends with Ushijima or anything. Just a rivals-to-teammates thing.)

“Ah. There will be a Nationals scout in the Intercollegiate Championship who wishes to see the two of us and Bokuto.”

“Oh,” Tooru breathes out. “ _Oh_ ,” he repeats, and makes a conscious effort to not remain a statue, tossing the ball to Ushijima who returns it with an overhand receive. He’s already warmed up running to practice, his arrival not as early as he would’ve liked due to a colleague’s carelessness forcing him to finish their presentation by himself. “Kou-chan doesn’t know yet?”

“The coaches thought it might affect his performance in an unfavorable way.”

“Hmm. I’ll ask Akaashi-chan about it.” He keeps up the tosses as his mind whirs. He’s strangely calm, even if this is surely a bigger matter than the other day he’d held Iwaizumi Hajime’s hand. At that memory, he thinks back to _the clash_ three years ago, past the everyday things they always find a way to bicker about and the things they still skirt around—

In the middle of this semester, Iwaizumi had mentioned, almost offhandedly, that he might need to take measures against his increasingly heavier workload (and sports science is nothing to be trifled with). Tooru had only hummed in response, said, _Too bad quitting won’t change the size of Iwa-chan’s tiny brain_ , and found himself running for his life when Iwaizumi lunged at him in turn (because his arm strength should _never_ be underestimated, much less his vast knowledge of Tooru’s _ticklish spots_ ), running to _at least_ keep Iwaizumi from utterly seeing through his pretense. Nothing more was said about that since then, and they both knew this year might as well be the last chance to fulfill their promise.

Ushijima looks at him when his fingers slip by the millimeters. “Something is on your mind,” he says, and Tooru’s reminded that the former hadn’t been Shiratorizawa’s captain by the merit of his physical strength alone.

He rolls his eyes. “Yes, Ushiwaka-chan. You told me a pretty big news and I don’t have just two emotions like your stone-face.” His next toss comes with a shift in aim and a lot more force, though still barely a third of his normal spike, and Ushijima has to dive to the other end of the bench to pick it up with an underhand receive. From the movements of his ankle, Tooru concludes that it _is_ a light sprain, the cast more of a precaution and a reminder not to strain it. He jumps to catch the ball one last time, holds it in the crook of his elbow, and plants both hands on his hips.

Ushijima returns to his seat with a straight back. “If you were thinking about volleyball, you wouldn’t be so out of focus.”

“Seriously, you picked _now_ to be perceptive?”

“I was simply pointing out an error in your regimen. It wouldn’t do for our setter to be distracted and potentially injure himself.”

Tooru clicks his tongue, striding over to sit with him on the bench. He hums, and spins the ball on the tip of his index finger. “It’s Iwa-chan.”

“Oh. Has he bloomed yet?”

“ _What?_ ” He whips his head Ushijima’s way, fumbles to keep the volleyball from bouncing away, but the latter just blinks back at him.

“The _Euphorbia milii_ ,” Ushijima says. “Out of the three succulents I gave, I believe that was the one you named Iwa-chan.”

“You—” In lieu of flailing his arms or pulling out his hair, Tooru squeezes the volleyball, pretends it’s Ushijima’s thick skull, and heaves out a sigh. “I meant the human Iwa-chan, you dolt. Seijou’s former ace and vice-captain—though he does look like his namesake,” he adds the last bit in a murmur. “But! They’re all still alive this time!”

“I see,” says Ushijima.

“I can take care of them better than you.”

A twitch that _might_ be a smile. “Very well.”

“...That was a joke. You just made a joke.”

“Yes. Though I was curious of how Iwa-chan was faring as well.”

“First”—Tooru holds up a hand—“only I get to say his name like that. Don’t call anyone or anything -chan, ever. Second…” He huffs and turns to watch the _crow versus owl_ battle still going on the court, the second-string setter looking harried by their inexhaustible energy. “Iwa-chan wants to quit volleyball.”

“Isn’t it about time?”

“You’re making it really hard for me to not beat you up, Ushiwaka-chan.”

“Iwaizumi is a strong player. A dependable ace, otherwise he wouldn’t have garnered your respect,” Ushijima tells him nothing he doesn’t already know. “However, only those who’ve earned their place will stand on the court,” he continues, and it’s so damn _frustrating_ because he does so without any intention to degrade, not even as mere _petty words_. While he’s made a number of false statements in the past, ones Tooru will forever hold a grudge against, he knows this isn’t one of them. “Volleyball isn’t the same for him as it it for you or I.”

“We’ve been playing together since we were _five_ ,” Tooru says, almost _hisses_ at him. “How can you really throw away something like that?”

_Because if Iwa-chan can, there may be others he’ll grow tired of._

_Because this will be one less thing connecting them._

Ushijima tilts his head, eyes like those of an eagle assessing its quarry. “You’ve spoken highly of him. While I disagree with your decision to go to Seijou, it was ultimately your choice, and it led you here with him. I fail to see how anything can get between the two of you, stubborn as you are.”

Head Coach spots him and calls him over, then, right before Tooru can gather his wit. He replays those words in his mind, unintentionally, the _stubborn_ that sounded far from an insult—and, _shit_ , did he just have a heart-to-heart with Ushijima? Iwaizumi will _never_ live that down—until he lets volleyball takes precedence as usual.  
  


 

 

* * *

 

 

 

“ _Tadaima_.”

On the last November’s afternoon, Tooru comes home to a quieter-than-usual apartment. “Iwa-chan?” he calls, because he’s memorized Iwaizumi’s classes more than his own—the mornings he’ll need a wake-up call, the days he should sleep in, the places he’ll most likely lost his wallet and student ID—and Iwaizumi tells him about his daily detours more often than not. He turns on the ceiling lights. Besides the low hum of cheap electricity, he hears no reply.

He takes off his shoes at the genkan and shivers when his bare feet touch the icy floor, all the cold of the season without much the blizzard. Two steps carry him into the living room, following Iwaizumi’s red string, where he drops his bag on their second-hand couch. Another four to navigate around the _kotatsu_ , past the kitchenette and traces of themselves they’ve scattered behind—plates and utensils piling up in the sink, watermark circles from their preferred glasses, the faintest smell of _kombu_ stock and fried tofu from today’s hurried breakfast—and for as long as they’ve been making this place their own, however impermanent, the things they can’t let go but have yet to find a place for are also taking refuge here.

Iwaizumi’s bedroom door is left ajar as usual. (They’ve never really needed to keep it closed for privacy, anyway, except on the occasions they have guests over.) Palm laid flat against it, Tooru pushes forward, light as his steps, with a _creak_ of the hinges and shadows crawling across the floorboards. Here, the lights are kept off, too, and winter breath fogs the lone window, filtering in what little dusk is left. Hunched over his desk, Iwaizumi is fast asleep, head pillowed on the bend of his arms and a spread of textbooks and ever-disorganized notes.

Like instinct, Tooru steps into this room that might as well be theirs; against it, he pries his sight away from Iwaizumi. He closes his eyes and stretches out a hand to randomly choose between their two blankets tangled on Iwaizumi’s bed. He knows Iwaizumi treasures the Godzilla one, no matter how much he’d outgrown it, how fuzzy and frayed its threads are now, but he also wants to reach for all of the stars and galaxies and wrap them around Iwaizumi Hajime. _Just for him._

He drapes the Godzilla blanket over Iwaizumi’s shoulders. Like this, its devastated buildings, with the night sky unlit despite flames stretching across the horizon, and _Gojira_ himself roaring and looming over it all, look far less sinister. “C’mon, Iwa-chan. Up you go.”

Iwaizumi just groans, and Tooru just keeps poking at his shoulder and pushing him out of the chair to head for the bed. _You’ll hunch your back and look even more like an old man, if you sleep like that!_ He frowns, clicks his tongue, when his fingers brush over Iwaizumi’s heated forehead.

“Ugh. I don’t wanna hear it from you,” Iwaizumi grumbles, hoarse and eyes still closed shut.

“Oh, so you admit you have a cold?”

“...No, I don’t have a cold. Just need a nap.”

“Iwa-chan is a terrible liar.”

“I don’t lie.”

“I suppose _denial_ is sort of different.”

Iwaizumi flops down on the bed with another grunt, rolls to his side, and traps half of the blanket under him without much care. “If you let me skip classes tomorrow, I’m gonna kill you.”

“You’ve said worse,” Tooru lilts, trying to tug the blanket free. “Move, you caveman.”

He doesn’t. Instead, Iwaizumi blindly searches the corner where Tooru’s blanket is haphazardly sprawled, grabs a firstful of it in his hand, and pulls it closer to himself for warmth. Tooru falls still. His mouth opens and closes around teasing words he’s prepared in advance, but can’t let out. “ _Iwa-chan_ ,” he goes for the annoying whine. “That’s _mine_.”

“This one smells nicer.”

“ _Eww_.” Because something just shoots up his throat, at that, the thickness of a heart, the slightest bit acidic, but choking all the same. “What are you, a dog?”

“I’m Gojira,” Iwaizumi mumbles into the pillow, and _oh_ , maybe there could be a fun side to this as well. Tooru snickers.

“Eh, really~?” he asks, settling beside him on the edge. “What are you, Gojira-san?”

From there, he watches the way Iwaizumi’s eyes light up even under the haze, almost brown instead of dark green in the dim blue. Iwaizumi goes on and on about Godzilla—the original one mixed with some elements from the 1962 and 2001 films, if Tooru's memory serves him right—as jumbled his explanation is, and Tooru plays along as he meanders about the room to dig through a drawer of medicines Iwaizumi always keeps in stock, often not for himself.

“Why’re you destroying the city?” Tooru then asks, bringing back with him a pill and a bottle of water he’s found stranded on the bookshelf (still drinkable, as a quick sniff checks out), which he then prods Iwaizumi to take.

“There’s this guy,” Iwaizumi says next, sleep-glazed eyes closing once more. “He—he’s a real dumbass and he gets himself in a lot of trouble. ‘Cause he’s ambitious, and he’s got a really awful personality that not everyone can appreciate, and he doesn’t know how to give up. He’s actually kinda smart. Strong. Really pretty, maybe. Girls like him.” Iwaizumi wrinkles his nose. “So he got himself in trouble and now I gotta look through the whole city for him.”

And it should be easy to ask, “Why?” but it isn’t as easy to hear the answer. So Tooru laughs, pokes Iwaizumi on the forehead, and says, all breezy, “I don’t think that’s how _Godzilla_ went.”

He slips from the bed, away from Iwaizumi who’s been inching closer and closer, probably dazed from his cold and therefore seeking the nearest source of warmth. He goes to retrieve his laptop and its stand from the bag he’s left on the couch, stalls on the way back, and finds himself immediately missing such closeness with him.

“C’mon,” Tooru says again. With great effort, he rolls Iwaizumi to the corner to make space. Iwaizumi squints up at him. “We’re gonna marathon the movies to freshen up your memory.”

Between the two of them, he’s the one who initiates physical contact more often, while Iwaizumi does the same from a bit farther away—like by a volleyball thrown, a bento shared or bought or made for him, and nicknames called. Collecting the prettiest bugs so Tooru would play with him, because until they both discovered volleyball, he’d been notorious for flirting with many new but short-lived hobbies. Dragging him for a nap on his lap when he wouldn’t shut up about planning the demise of some prodigies (which Tooru takes advantage of since, sometimes), and picking him up from classes no matter the time and distance.

Iwaizumi doesn’t get sick, because apparently his iron will extends to his robust health; so when Iwaizumi joins him in leaning against the headboard, drags their blankets along and over them both, and drops his feverish head on Tooru’s shoulder, bristly hair tickling at Tooru’s jaw, Tooru just comes closer all the same. Iwaizumi’s grown even fewer centimeters this year, but it allows them to fit just perfect like this.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

It’s only when Iwaizumi dozes off, his jabs at Tooru turning out slurred, that Tooru slinks out of the room. For him, he’s learned when to turn down the volume and rest.

He lingers in the kitchenette, hands restless by his sides. He’s figured out how to make _agedashi tofu_ and little else, with Iwaizumi-san’s discreet guidance and a whole lot of trials and errors, but with a cold comes a sore throat, and Iwaizumi had sounded quite hoarse.

…How hard is it to cook miso soup, anyway?

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

“—and that was how he started a fire in our kitchen _again_ and got banned from ever touching the stove by the landlady,” Iwaizumi tells Hanamaki and Matsukawa, on the morning the four of them gather a few days before the All-Japan Volleyball Intercollegiate Championship. At this anecdote, Matsukawa hums something amused behind his can of soda while Hanamaki grins his best shit-eating grin. Tooru rushes out of the bathroom in clothes he’s hastily put on, a towel still wrapped around his wet hair, but his indignant _hey!_ goes mostly unheeded.

Of course their old friends would barge in without warning (and come up with a new trick every year). He and Iwaizumi had woken up thinking there were intruders in the apartment; armed with volleyball and a bat respectively, they’d found Hanamaki sprawled on the couch, a bag of chips in hand and eyes fixed on the TV, and Matsukawa almost entirely tucked under the _kotatsu_ and napping like a giant cat. In hindsight, why they’d ever given them the spare key is a decision they often question.

“Well, it worked in the end,” says Hanamaki.

“I think between having a cold and death by fire, I got over the cold pretty quickly.”

“You sure it wasn’t _death by Oikawa’s cooking_ that did it?”

Tooru nudges Iwaizumi off balance with a foot to the shoulder when the latter snorts amusedly. Settling cross-legged beside him, he tugs at the end of the towel to accompany his pout. “Why don’t you two ever take _my_ side and bully Iwa-chan?”

“You handle that job well enough on your own,” Matsukawa says.

“Oh~ Hear that, Iwa-chan?” Tooru coos. “It means I’m so amazing that you guys need to gang up on me!”

“Your ability to think positive is what’s amazing here,” Iwaizumi says, an old-time joke for this period of change, because they all _have_ changed and the end of another year is ever-approaching. Still, Hanamaki snickers at Tooru’s expense, and Tooru puffs out his cheeks and purses his lips more obviously despite knowing how stupid he looks—Iwaizumi even says so, _What’s with that ridiculous face_ —but it makes the stretch of Iwaizumi’s smile wider. He keeps it up even when he catches Matsukawa watching them behind attentive, half-lidded gaze.

He shoves at Iwaizumi’s shoulder. “Your turn. You’re smelly, ugh.”

“You better not have used up all the hot water,” Iwaizumi warns. He stands up, tousles Tooru’s hair with the soaked towel, and goes to take his turn in the shower before they leave for _whatever it is_ Hanamaki and Matsukawa have up their sleeves.

“I’m surprised you two don't bathe together,” Matsukawa remarks, and whatever war this is he's waging, Tooru smiles all too innocently.

“We grew out of it when we were eight.”

Hanamaki finishes his chips and licks the last of it off of his fingers with little to no shame. “Bet your mom still have blackmail-worthy pics.”

Tooru whips the towel in his direction, spraying droplets of water. “You’re not gonna sweet-talk my mom—not that she’ll like any of you.”

“Oh, no. I fear whoever brought you into this world.”

“On the other hand,” Matsukawa chimes in, twisting off the tab from his soda can and putting it in his pocket for safekeeping, to latter add to his bizarre collection, “if she could love Oikawa Tooru, she’d probably love everyone else.”

“Good point.”

Tooru huffs, much too fondly. With the towel draped over his head like a veil, he leans a cheek on a propped palm, eyes flitting ever so briefly to the bathroom’s door. Iwaizumi’s stopped singing since the first time Tooru had caught him in the act. “Where’ll we go, anyway?” he asks the two lounging across from him, looking like they never want to part with the heated blanket (or are planning to steal it for their own abode). The _kotatsu_ ’s heater is turned up high against a winter that keeps on baffling; on the TV, the weather channel speculates heavy snow by the holidays, at least by Tokyo’s standards. “It’s too early for anything, even for a Saturday.”

Hanamaki and Matsukawa look at each other, a whole conversation telegraphed between them in the span of seconds and within the limited space of peripheral glances. They’ve had barely a fourth of the years Tooru and Iwaizumi have shared, and for all the chances that you might eventually find someone you can just click with (because there are seven _billion_ souls in this side of the universe), he can only wonder if it’s their red string at work. Beneath his joy for them, he can’t help the awful taste that wells up. There’s a plant that’s taken root in his heart, and as he tries to uproot it— _kill_ it—its bitter sap lingers on his tongue.

“Hm. Well, we thought about just wandering around Tokyo. ‘Hiro’s been really into this _backpacking_ stuff,” Matsukawa informs, and Hanamaki flips up a peace sign beside his flat expression. “But, eh, it’s too cold outside. So maybe bake cookies and watch winter-themed movies and shit. Get drunk and play games for the sleepover.”

“The preliminary is in _two days_. We’re not going to get drunk,” insists Tooru. “I like the first plan better. There’s a lot here I wanna show you guys.”

“Iwaizumi isn’t a lightweight like you. Actually, none of us are.”

“And I’d like to live longer, thanks,” Hanamaki says. “The last time you went all _tour guide_ on us, I woke up in Saitama and a retirement home adopted Issei.”

“To be fair, the grandpas and grandmas there were nicer than you,” Matsukawa says.

“What, you wanna go back there? You love them more than me? Are we breaking up?”

“They didn’t sit on me for eating the last cookie.”

A gasp. “How _vulgar_. I’m breaking up with you, you cookie monster.”

“Iwa-chan~ Save me from these idiots—”

“What the fu—oi! Close the door, Shittykawa!”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

And because Tooru is a force to be reckoned with when he’s excited about something, and _keeping on the move_ is certainly one of those, they do go out. For all their casual approach toward volleyball post-Seijou, lasting less than six months on the team before getting distracted, Hanamaki and Matsukawa are still as serious about showing support in their own ways. Tooru’s wallet will suffer after treating these friends of his— _“For every service ace you get in, we’ll pay you five hundred yen back,”_ Hanamaki says—but he won’t mourn any second of this.

The thing is, he _also_ gets drunk. It’s Makki and Mattsun, after all.

“And! Ushiwaka! Overworked himself and sprained his ankle _this_ close before the Championship!” Tooru grumbles, pinching the pads of his thumb and forefinger together. Past the circle they make, he glares at the amber liquid sloshing inside his glass. “Stupid. Our fourth-year ace is annoying and Ushiwaka almost made me toss to him.”

Iwaizumi scoffs. “So you’ve said _five times_ already. Also, pot to kettle.”

“Mm. Nope.” Tooru tilts his head. “Iwa-chan’s always there before I get to do anything stupid.”

They’ve ended up sitting side by side again, in this ramen stall by the street. He leans close until he can breathe in Iwaizumi’s scent and there’s nothing identifiable beneath the salty whiff of sweat, the sting of cold in the air, the smoky, savory mixture wafting out from the kitchen. Nothing he has words for, at least. It’s just memories he can’t grapple, _comfort_ , of someplace he knows he can rest his weary head on and close his eyes without worry.

“Should we record this?” he hears Matsukawa ask.

“Already on it.” Hanamaki’s got his phone out and pointed in their direction. Iwaizumi scowls at him, but they’re both just as immune to it as Tooru is. Beneath the tipsiness, he recalls taking pictures of himself and sending them to Iwaizumi despite the latter’s unrealized threat to block his number, thinks, _So this must be good_. Tooru hiccups between his bout of laughter, reaches over to pat a head of short, mauve hair and another of messy curls, all without mercy, and slumps back against Iwaizumi’s side.

“I just thought he was cute,” Hanamaki muses, not bothering to fix his hair. “Exorcise me, Issei.”

“Sure. Can I do it if I’m possessed as well?”

“Iwaizumi, go make Oikawa look stupid.”

“He already does that to himself,” Iwaizumi says, and there’s an awkward twitch at the corners of his lips, dimples sinking in as a small smile peeks out from between them. Tooru wants to snap a picture of him, too. _Iwa-chan is cute_ , he wants to tell their friends, but maybe he wants to see him smile and get to him smile every other day more than that.

Tooru lightly slaps Iwaizumi on the cheek. “How mean,” he slurs. “Iwa-chan’s so mean.”

He squeezes, pinches the skin almost to the point of pain. He thumbs over the reddened spot gently, in apology, when Iwaizumi flinches back the slightest bit, and slides his hand down to Iwaizumi’s neck. It’s gooseflesh, warm and blotchy-red under Tooru’s exhaled breaths.

“I’ve got to go,” Iwaizumi rasps. “Bathroom,” he excuses, pushing back his chair as he makes to stand. Cutlery rattles when his knee bumps the underside of the countertop. Just like that, Tooru’s cold again.

“You know,” Matsukawa says, seemingly impassive (and this is just one of the reasons Tooru hates _being_ drunk, because he can’t tell with pinpoint accuracy). “I thought since you both grew up together, spent all your time together, Iwaizumi would pick up some of your tricks—and he did, but maybe getting too close meant he couldn’t see the whole picture.”

“Have you been reading one of those books again, Mattsun?” Tooru teases with a sneer. “They’ve turned you into such a romantic.”

“Stargazing and believing that aliens exist, in the hopes that maybe we aren’t alone in the universe, is a pretty romantic notion.”

“Oh, gods,” Hanamaki says ruefully. “He left me with these nerds.”

“Why wouldn’t they be out there? _Look_.” When Tooru holds up his left hand this time, it’s clenched into a fist, too tense even under the alcohol’s influence to unfurl, but his finger is still bound with a red string he has no choice over. “Even this stupid thing exists. And you know what’s the worst part is? It’s true. My sister went the other way and now she had to raise a kid by herself. You _both_ know it’s true—look at yourselves. Why are aliens so far-fetched?”

“There’s already someone closer to home, isn’t there?” Hanamaki tells him, then. _Ah, must be that telepathic thing again,_ Tooru muses. “What was it Iwaizumi used to say? _If you keep thinking of someone who isn’t here, you can’t defeat the opponent in front of you_ —something like that. So if you’re crazy enough to look for aliens at the other end of the galaxy, you’re crazy enough to look for _him_ here.”

Tooru glares at the two of them. From the other side, the chef yells out a new order. A customer drags their porcelain bowl across varnished wood, glasses _clink_ against one another, and the smoke makes his eyes sting in the worst of ways. (It must be that. _Just that_ , and not anything wet or saline _._ ) He doesn’t fool himself into thinking it’s more than a coincidence that Iwaizumi returns right then. He smiles, because they’re just trying to help and it’s _fine_. (It’s _just fine_!)

“Makki challenged you to arm-wrestling again,” Tooru says, nursing his drink. They’re not here to talk about his lovelife, anyway, and it’d be a shame to waste a rare enough opportunity to get together. Hanamaki raises a thin eyebrow at that, but shrugs, says that _well_ , maybe he’s been thinking of a rematch after all this time.

Iwaizumi grins—just the right width, a sufficient glimpse of teeth—and Tooru concludes that he’s picked up more than just observation skills and a penchant for nicknames. He settles back right among them, raises his arm for the duel, and doesn’t look at Tooru at all through the rest of it.

(He wins, of course.)

It’s well into the night when they stumble back into the apartment. Snow falls heavy today upon the city, and Hanamaki and Matsukawa are increasingly in favor of a sleepover, and when Tooru tries to rewatch DVDs of his team’s first opponent in the preliminary, _drunk or not_ , it’s three against one. Taller and heavier and lazier all around, Matsukawa drapes himself across Tooru’s lap to hinder to his already inebriated protest. Hanamaki and Iwaizumi, also tipsy, argue about which movie they should watch.

At the end of it, they’re too comfortably settled and warm at the _kotatsu_ to move. Iwaizumi keeps some distance between him and Tooru as they go to sleep, just a few newfound centimeters that's enough for silence and cold to fill, and for once Tooru doesn’t pull him closer, either.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> apologies for the lateness, both in posting this chapter and replying to comments. i've been feeling sick for a while but will always try to reply - thank you all for the feedback ^^ each one means a lot.
> 
> [tumblr](http://astersandstuffs.tumblr.com/) // [fic post](http://astersandstuffs.tumblr.com/tagged/my%20writing)

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for giving this fic a chance and reading it! 
> 
> kudos/comments/reblogs make my day and motivate me to write - let me know what you think?
> 
> [tumblr](http://astersandstuffs.tumblr.com/) // [fic post](http://astersandstuffs.tumblr.com/tagged/my%20writing)


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